


A Task Garden

by misbegotten



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8008303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Robbie thinks with exasperation, the lad just shuts down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Task Garden

**Author's Note:**

> For ComplicatedLight, wendymr, and Pat+Precieux, who took the time to say encouraging words. All errors are, of course, my own.

Sometimes, Robbie thinks with exasperation, the lad just shuts down.

There's no change in his expression. Hathaway is far too canny to give away something as vital as "shutting down" in even the twitch of an eyebrow. Hathaway's generous lips grant Robbie amusement in an upward turn, but there's no sign for shutting down. His eyes -- Robbie's never quite looked closely enough to observe their exact colour because a bloke doesn't go around just staring into his sergeant's eyes, does he? – don't go shuttered or blank. His slouch (a touch deferential, Robbie notes, as if Hathaway thinks it's not quite proper to loom over one's superior) doesn't get… well, _slouchier_.

No, when James Hathaway does it there's just something in the air. It bites at Robbie, gnaws at his thoughts, and Robbie starts to backtrack mentally to recall what he said or did to bring about the shutting down.

Today, he honestly can't remember. They were talking about the case. Robbie made an observation about the suspect, a nutter if he'd ever come across one. Before that there were vague plans about rounding up lunch, and before that didn't matter because somewhere between the case and whatever Robbie had done or said or thought too loudly, Hathaway was gone.

Robbie pulls the car to the side of the mercifully vacant road, puts on the brake, and clears his throat. Hathaway, whose fingers had been sliding towards his pocket (no doubt to fish out a cigarette), stills.

"Sergeant," Robbie says. Or starts to say. Because when Robbie twists towards him Hathaway makes a sort of sigh and then reaches forward, twining Robbie's tie between his fingers, yanking a bit desperately, and abruptly pressing his lips to Robbie's.

Robbie's brain stutters. It goes something like

Hathawayiskissingme. Whatsitliketobekissedbyabloke? Youdaftsodthisiswhatitsliketobekissedbyabloke. WhyisHathawaykissingme? WhyinthebloodyhellamIkissinghimbac--

Robbie's brain stops on the thought because it is blindingly obvious that he _is_ kissing back.

He puts an end to that immediately. Not forcefully. Not by pushing Hathaway away, or yelling, or punching him. Just by withdrawing a bit. Taking in a gasp of air.

And there's that sigh again, falling off of James' parted lips.

Robbie's head has obviously been scrambled, because when did Hathaway become James?

Robbie doesn't fool himself. He has plenty of other people in the world who are more than happy to do it on his behalf, every working day. James became James the instant Robbie kissed back.

James turns his head, not meeting Robbie's eyes, and mutters something. _In Latin_ , of course, because one certainly wouldn't want to talk about kissing one's guv'nor, one's mate, out of the clear blue sky in English.

A car passes by, nearly startling Robbie out of his wits, and as it disappears around the bend James starts to fumble with the handle of the car door.

Ah. Automatic locks are a wonder. The fact that Robbie manages to hit the button before James can escape is a bit of a miracle too.

"Sir," James says steadily. And then, with just a hint of misery, "Sir."

"Don't 'sir' me," Robbie manages. His head is a tumult, mind racing to come up with the right thing to do, or say, or think too loudly to fix the situation. Instinctively, his hand goes to James' shoulder.

When James leans into the touch, Robbie realizes what he needs to do. Not what he should do, or thinks to do, but needs to do. 

He brushes his fingers across James' lips. And then brings the fingers back to his own lips.

A kiss, but not a kiss.

"Sir," James says again, but this time it's in a tone that Robbie has heard once in his life and never forgotten. It's James' "Love Lines" voice from so ridiculously long ago, yet it rings in Robbie's ears as if it were yesterday. From when James was still an unknown quantity in Robbie's life. When their partnership was tentative, fledgling. Something fragile.

There's something fragile in the air now, and damned if Robbie is going to lose it because of fear or something he might laughingly call wisdom. He's going with his gut. A good copper goes with his gut.

"The secret of a happy life is to know when to stop," he says. James starts to take in a noisy breath, but Robbie muddles on. "And then go that bit further."

James stills again. Then his eyebrows quirk. "I'm-- I'm not familiar with that philosopher." He sounds aggrieved, actually. (And, thankfully, he's not using that bloody Love Lines voice.)

Oh, there are so many things that should be done and said and thought about all of this. But Robbie grins. He can't help himself. He can't help that in this moment, he is supremely happy.

"We'll talk about it." He straightens in his seat, makes sure his hands aren't shaking as he puts the car in gear. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Sir," James says. And James is _there_. Not shutting down.

Aye, Robbie thinks. Sir, indeed. Navigating the waters of James Hathaway is going to take careful consideration. But at the moment, he knows he is up to the task.

**Author's Note:**

> The task garden is G.K. Chesterton's. Morse, of course, belongs to Morse.


End file.
